


one of a thousand cuts

by dilithium



Series: a weapon of paper is no less efficient [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, gratuitous use of commas, i remembered the origami penguin and it broke my heart, im sorry, somewhere between Ghosts and Smile Like You Mean It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 14:02:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9552083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dilithium/pseuds/dilithium
Summary: A scrap of wrapping paper shouldn't leave him reeling.





	

Spending the night on the couch leaves Oswald with a crick in his neck and a stiffness in his leg that makes sitting up an almost impossible task. He manages it anyway with a single-minded determination, a long, ragged exhale escaping him when he finally sets both feet on the floor. Digging his fingers into the fabric of the couch’s arm, he grits his teeth and hoists himself up, ignoring the shock of pain and letting his good leg take the majority of his weight as he surveys the room, eyes desperately trying to pick out even the slightest change in his surroundings. A newspaper that’s been folded up from where he’d carelessly cast it aside the night before, a neatened stack of files, a single righted bottle in the not inconsiderable collection he’s already formed.

Something. _Anything._

Anything that points towards Ed’s return.

It all remains upsettingly unchanged.

Cluttered mess greets Oswald wherever he looks, every available surface littered with ignored paperwork, forgotten dishes and bottles at differing stages of emptiness. Not even Olga’s valiant efforts have been able to make the space look halfway presentable, not when he’s dead set on leaving the room as little as possible on the off chance that Ed decides to make his way home.

“Ed?” He calls tentatively, then again. “ _Ed?_ ” The stubborn spark in his chest flares the way it has been since he’d taken to sleeping downstairs, ever hopeful that this time he’ll receive an answer.

Again, there’s no change and he’s met with an indifferent silence that makes Oswald hunch into himself defensively, as if that movement alone will ward off the oppressive loneliness creeping up on him.

Mulishness forces him to tighten his jaw and straighten his spine, a facade of nonchalance that doesn’t manage to convince even himself.

Casting the room one last look in vain, he makes his way upstairs, though his progress is hindered by the stronger than normal throbbing in his leg. He means to head to his bedroom, seeking a change of clothes at least, but he finds himself stopping just outside of Ed’s door, hand already poised to knock before he realises what he’s doing and freezes. It takes a moment but he carries the motion through, though it ends up being more of a weak tap than a knock. Blinking away the sudden stinging in his eyes when Ed’s voice doesn’t immediately call him in, he pushes the door open unceremoniously and pretends that something in his chest doesn’t constrict painfully when he finds the room empty. He narrowly avoids slamming the door shut and tells himself he’s not _fleeing_ the vacated space when he twists away and continues down the hall, faster than before.

Oswald’s room isn’t in much better shape than the living room downstairs. Clothes that had once been carefully hanged or folded are now crumpled, lying stranded wherever they happen to land when he’s haphazardly tossed them aside.

It doesn’t bother him as much as it should.

Making his way further into the room, he happens to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror and has to wince at the view; he’s not a pretty sight to behold. With his hair matted to his head instead of meticulously styled, dark circles under his eyes giving away just how much restful sleep he _hasn’t_ been getting, and his clothes rumpled and awkwardly hiked up in all the wrong places, he feels a strange dissonance ring through him as his mind struggles to accept that the wan face staring blankly back at him is his own reflection. Tearing himself away takes more willpower than he’s willing to admit to but he does it, busying himself with a half-hearted search for clean clothes.

Instead of his usual routine of deliberating the colour coordination of ties and shirts and how imposing a figure he’d cut in what suit, he settles for something that he deems passable, picking out the first combination that doesn’t strike him as entirely horrible. Habit has him lay the chosen articles of clothing out on his bed as if this were any other day. As if his one friend _hadn’t_ walked away and disappeared without a trace. Jarring himself from his train of thought with an unnecessarily violent shake of his head, Oswald looks over his choices again with a grimace. They’ll do.

Except that in his distraction he’s forgotten cufflinks.

His gaze shifts to the appropriate cabinet and he finds a small moment of satisfaction in knowing _exactly_ which cufflinks to match with his so far lacklustre chosen outfit. Hands automatically reaching for the top drawer, muscle memory guides Oswald to the box he needs and he plucks it out, already shutting the drawer when a minute flash of orange catches his eye and makes him pause.

Brow furrowing, he puts the box aside and fishes the object out from the bottom of the drawer. The first brush of his fingers against paper causes him to hesitate but when he draws his prize out two things happen in rapid succession. His suspicions are confirmed, and the realisation drives the air from his lungs as though he’d been dealt a blow to the diaphragm.

The paper penguin lies innocently in his palm as Oswald staggers, knees buckling.

He sinks to the floor, gasping and carefully cradling the penguin to his chest as if it were made of the finest of crystal and not a torn off scrap of wrapping paper.

Harmless as it is, it’s suddenly all too much for Oswald to look at and he squeezes his eyes shut against the sight of it and the abrupt onslaught of memories it brings with it, chest heaving with unsteady breaths as he presses his back against the cabinet behind him until the handles start to dig painfully into his shoulder blades.

The darkness behind his eyelids proves itself less helpful than he’d hoped, rapidly shifting and reshaping into an achingly familiar face.

Ed, looking haunted and, despite his reassurances, expecting retribution every time Oswald sets foot in Arkham’s visitation room. Ed, tousle-haired and determined to remind him that, astoundingly, there is someone who believes in him, the small penguin suddenly materialising from between his fingers. Ed, clutching his meagre possessions and his release certificate at the gates of Arkham, a knowing smile spreading across his face when their eyes meet. Ed, the first day after his release with the reality of being a free man finally sinking in, his eyes bright and _alive_ , already making himself at home at Oswald’s side.

Ed, Ed, Ed, _Ed_.

Edward Nygma in Oswald’s robe, eyes soft and expression open, unconcerned with the mottling of purple, red and blue circling his neck and telling him he’d do anything for him, blissfully unaware of the stuttering beat of Oswald’s heart.

Ed, spending less and less time at home, and more and more with _her_ , all the while infuriatingly blind to the things right under his nose. Ed, grieving endlessly. Ed, tirelessly prying and investigating. Ed, plotting revenge with an unreserved glee.

Ed Nygma, walking swiftly away without a backwards glance, leaving his parting words to echo distantly in Oswald ears.

“ _Remember that._ ”

Another gasp snaps him back to himself, this one more pained than the first, and when he forces his eyes open again the room is swimming. It’s then that Oswald realises that he’s been crying.

There are tears streaming down his face, blurring his vision, and his shoulders are heaving with poorly muffled sobs. They give away for a moment to a single ragged cry which rips itself from his throat and rings throughout the room before his sobbing starts anew in the answering silence, unrestrained and mournful.

Through it all he keeps the token shielded from any potential harm, fingers curled protectively around the small paper body.

And that’s where Olga finds him hours later, propped up against a cabinet, exhausted and sniffling, tear-stained face bowed over the origami penguin still held delicately in his hands.

**Author's Note:**

> i finally decide to try my hand at actually writing fic and it had to be after that episode ripped my heart out and set it on fire.
> 
> i don't know guys it's almost 7am and i wrote this all in one go, please be gentle.


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